


I am the Captain of my Soul

by LPSunnyBunny



Category: Sunless Sea, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Gen, Journal Entry Style, M/M, Slight Bakugo/Midoriya, Slight Shinso/Midoriya, They still have quirks, Zailors, mild horror elements, slight midoriya/a lot of people really, the Underzee, with occasional interludes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPSunnyBunny/pseuds/LPSunnyBunny
Summary: In a world where London collapsed to the Underzee, Izuku Midoriya is a new, Quirkless captain setting off on his own adventure. Told in a journal-entry style, Izuku will gather a loyal crew and create his legacy.Probably won't make a lot of sense if you don't know anything about Sunless Sea. I encourage you to try reading it anyway.





	1. December, 1887

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing, starting another story that I'll probably abandon. HAHAHAHA.
> 
>  
> 
> Just so you're aware- echoes are the currency of the Underzee.

My name is Izuku Midoriya. My father was a zee captain, sailing the Underzee. He may have passed below the waves, but he left me enough to follow in his footsteps. A hefty sum of echoes. A dream.

From a young age, I barely saw my father. He would stop home on occasion, visiting my mother and I. He would tell me stories of the zee. Of far off places and grand adventures. I rose to follow in his footsteps when he never came home.

I am Izuku Midoriya, and this is my legacy.

 

 

November 30, 1887

I have sold my father's heirlooms. With my mother gone, I am the sole inheritor of the estate. I feel bad about it, but it's what he wanted them to be used for. My ship, Yuuei, has been purchased. A Maenad-class frigate, it has a good amount of hold space and the captain's quarters are a decent size.

London is home, in the Underzee. I will miss it, but the zee is calling me, and I must go. I will return often, the zee is wide, but not forever. 

I have a crew of men, and my engineer, Katsuki Bakugo. A rather... explosive man, but he has a good heart and an even better head for the workings of a ship. I'd trust him with my life, even if he does tell me to go drown myself every other day. I have loaded up Yuuei with supplies and fuel. When I walk on her deck, I feel secure. This is the ship that will carry me across the zee.

I have agreed to take a man across the zee to the Cumaean Canal, and then to Iron & Misery Co. He calls himself the Gnomic Gallivant. We will be heading south first, then.

A tomb-colonist was looking for passage to Venderbright. I will take him. Tomb-colonists are dusty, sitting in their coffins and sleeping. Kacchan hates them. He calls them walking corpses.

He has made me promise that if he ever gets to that state, I will drown him myself. I don't know if I could, but I promised. He seemed almost.... relieved when I did. Of course, he followed it up with his customary explosions and screaming at me to piss off, so I think he's okay.

We will set off on the Zee tomorrow. I have one more stop to make tonight.

(Reminder: stock up on mushroom wine and coffee tomorrow. Venderbright adores mushroom wine and Kacchan is addicted to coffee.)

 

 

 

December 1, 1887

We have launched from Fallen London, heading south. I dropped by the Admiral's office last night, they have been known to pay zee captains handsomely. I asked what they needed.

Information, they said. Port reports.

I have never compiled a port report. I guess I shall do my best. They also tasked me with collecting information from an agent at Iron & Misery. I shall collect this information, but I have no desire to get involved.

London plays dangerous games.

 

December 2, 1887

We stopped by Mutton Island. If there's anywhere to practice writing port reports, it's here. All is quiet. I made a trek to the hilltop to look over the town as I wrote. The wind cut the air like a shriek. It must be the caves, the way they spin wind round and round until it's razor sharp.

It must be the caves.

After an hour or so, we resumed our journey south.

 

 

December 2, cont

It is late night. Kacchan came to me, a bare hour ago.

(It is always night, in the Underzee.)

Regardless. He talked for a while in his usual manner, until he got to the point. He had heard tales of Zubmarines. He wanted to chase the tales and see if they were true. London and Her Majesty's Admiral Fleets had sworn off Zubmarine exploration. But perhaps... if Kacchan wants to, then I see no reason to deny him. There have been tales of the research continuing in distant colonies.

Little ships fill the waters in this area. I overheard the crew swapping wistful stories of the old, sunlit sea. The Cumaean Canal is near.

Journeys across the zee are surprisingly short. You can cross the whole zee in a handful of weeks. That is, if you have the courage and supplies to. The journey is not the dangerous part. Few ships make it past the halfway point.

 

 

December 3, 1887

We made port in Giannotti Harbour, at the Cumaean Canal.

My passenger asked for my assistance.

"A riddle," he said to me. "There are ten individuals in a room, one of whom is an ancient tyrant. How can you distinguish him?"

"Answer: burglarize a private library for a picture of him beforehand."

Kacchan called me a moron. I helped the passenger anyway. Nothing too bad. I just carried a ladder. Surely that is not a crime.

I shall never forget what he said to me.

"I have seen the face of eternity printed in ink. It was a terrible face."

I do not know what this man is getting himself into. I don't think I wish to know.

I sat and listened for a while by the docks, writing my report. The gates open. The gates close. Ships come and go. If anywhere in the Underzee is safe besides London, it is here. The surface nations have a vested interest in keeping this place open and safe, after all.

As I was sitting, a card game ended badly near me. Someone knifed another player, and people scrabbled to grab the coins that spilled from her pockets.

I snatched up a long scrap of paper. Markings, dates, times, code names. Spy's work? I will need to find someone to decipher this.

 

 

 

December 4, 1887

We continue south to the Iron Republic. The zee puts off sizzling vapors. Time has begun to slip sideways. Kacchan breathes in the air, stands a little taller. His palms are constantly smoking, here. His eyes shine a bit more, always looking to the horizon.

The Iron Republic is Hell's client-state. Their laws are not the laws of man or nature. We must always tread carefully here.

 

 

December 4, cont.

Upon making port, I was immediately accosted by a young girl with irrepressible cheer. She was a gunner, pushing her designs onto me, asking to join my crew.

Well, I needed a gunner and she seemed the agreeable and competent sort, so I hired her. Her name is Ochako Uraraka. She whirled aboard, argued with Kacchan, chatted with the crew, and berated me for the quality of weapons on the ship.

I think she'll fit in just fine.

Writing the port report was...interesting. The streets wouldn't lie straight. The ink kept freezing. Everything was overwhelming. I don't understand how Kacchan could thrive in a place like this. Emotions were mathematical. There was nostalgia for a hatching of an egg.

The only way to rid myself of it was to write it all down. I hope the admiral will be able to make sense of what I wrote, I cannot read a single word on the page.

There was a artificer looking for someone to sponsor his project. A prototype of a forward-mounted gun. He needed stigian ivory and devilbone dice. We need a better gun, so if I can find some and bring it to him, I will accept his prototype.

Kacchan insisted on visiting the MARKET OF HUNGERS. Flies everywhere. Buzz. I was dragged along. Might as well see their wares.

Someone called to me. I turned, and no one was looking at me. Something caressed my cheek.

Eyes forward, Midoriya. The Iron Republic is not somewhere to stray.

 

December 5, 1887

We set off from the Iron Republic. Kacchan was disappointed to leave, but I am glad. I fear what would happen to him if we stayed for much longer.

We continue south. We will make a full loop around the first two sections of the zee, dropping off the tomb-colonist on our final leg home.

 

 

December 5, cont.

I came up on the deck to find the metal sharp with sparks. Ozonal coronas haunt the ship. We are near Dawn's Edge. Uraraka spends more time floating than walking. Her hair seems to be underwater, even when wind passes through it.

We encountered the Glorious Frigates. Two golden ships, shining with the light of the dawn, cruising past us. They gave us a cursory glance, then continued past.

I am glad. We would be destroyed in an instant if they decided to engage on us.

The Dawn Machine. It sings. Gloriously. We dawdled for a bare handful of moments, before I had regretfully directed us away. Zailors go sun-mad. I will not let the sun take any of mine.

The light sinks into our bones. It sings. It hums.

For hours after The Dawn Machine vanished, I could hear Uraraka singing.

"THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN"

Her melody cut through the air. Yuuei's lamp shone brighter. Our fuel burned more fiercely.

I do not think we will return to the sea around The Dawn Machine. I can feel it's pull and I fear we would not make it away a second time.

 

 

 

December 6, 1887

We looped around to the Grand Geode, making a stop in Zelo's town. It's a naval base, with the Royal Navy's emblems, curiously amended.

Efficiency everywhere. Bright-eyed men and women work, singing, hymns with unfamiliar words.

Uraraka did not leave the ship while we docked.

I saw a sign. 'STATION V (ADJUNCT)' Does the Admiralty know? Or want to know? I will compile a report.

 

 

December 6, cont.

The Marines are watching. My notes are safely tucked away in my desk.

I asked to see someone in charge. I wanted to know. I saw the Commodore. There was- something bright. We discussed matters on importance, I'm sure of it.

I can almost remember. A zailor asked to stay behind. I permitted it because- because-

It'll all come clear later. Probably.

The light was pretty. There was some hint of information hidden in there.

We continue east.

 

 

 

December 7, 1887

The Carnelian Coast. Far to the south, the Neath-roof glimmers above the Mountain of Light.

Uraraka put her skills on display today. We encountered a Behemoustache, rising up out of the zee. She ordered Yuuei around, firing upon the beast until it sank into the zee. We made it out with a damaged hull and a healthy dose of fear.

Kacchan decided we should dig around in it's innards. For some insane reason, I let him. He carried a sac of goo onto the ship, dropping it onto the deck. Intestinal mucus. Lovely.

He carved the sac open, and pulled out a human skull. I shrieked loud enough to wake the dead and tossed it overboard.

Kacchan laughed at me, the jerk.

 

December 7, cont.

We pulled into Port Carnelian. I stepped out Yuuei and immediately received an invitation. 'The Fierce Philanthropist'. She's the subject of intense gossip. Independently wealthy, an industrialist's daughter, a widow, unwelcome in London.

Kacchan threatened to kill me if I didn't accept. Of course I was going to accept, why wouldn't I? There's no harm in seeing what people want.

It was just me, her, and a decanter of sherry. She was a sizable woman, wearing sensible satin and sensible shoes. Her hair was.... impeccably curled.

Her voice betrayed a hint of Midlands melancholy. She must have spent much of her life on the Surface.

She asked about my travels. I told her we were just setting out. She asked about when the nations of the Neath struck an agreement to abandon their research into zubmarine travel.

The 'Agreement About Nothing of Consequence'.

I told her my honest thoughts. It was nonsense. Nowhere should be forbidden the the capable explorer.

She gave me the address to her hidden workshop, where she can convert my ship to a zubmarine. Kacchan was ecstatic. Or at least, less grumpy than usual.

Uraraka was astounded by the idea. She sprung into a flurry of ideas for underwater combat. I shall see what this workshop contains.

 

 

 

December 8, 1887

Kacchan spent some time in the workshop, rudely correcting efforts. I spent some time providing the Philanthropist with additional funding from what I had left over. Echoes are running a bit low, but we should be fine.

Uraraka took the echoes I gave her, and set off into the evening. I hope she'll be okay. She seemed determined to procure us the Stygian ivory that we needed, humming her song. The streets seemed a little bit brighter around her.

The workshop is so loud. Kacchan is constantly sparking around the other engineers, one of whom is shooting off jets of flame whenever Kacchan goes near him. They've taken to working on opposite ends of the workshop.

Everything smells faintly of peppermint and oil. It's both soothing and distressing.

I spent some time at Murgatroyd's Imperial Tea Shop. It was relaxing. Local tea, blue and smokey. It was almost like London, but for the tiger lounging on a divan. It complained about the recent nostalgic trend in poetry.

Port Carnelian is a collection of information. I decided to go to the Blue Bazaar and talk to a tiger as the base for my port report.

The Blue Bazaar is Port Carnelian's great indoor market. Arched, lofty, plush with patterned carpets where the vendors display their wares. And chock full of gossip.

The tiger I talked to chatted about the Banded Prince (their supposed monarch) and his palace deep in the jungle. I steered the conversation onto the state of his people.

'No complaints'. He had said.

Not even about the reinstatement of the travel restrictions on natives? Or the report of a tiger killed at the jungle's edge?

I let him be. He seemed agitated.

I picked up a few solacefruit, per Uraraka's request. Solacefruit are delightful and refreshing, in smaller quantities. In larger, one of the nicest ways to die.

 

 

 

December 9, 1887

Uraraka returned, empty handed, looking triumphant last night. This morning, a few crates were delivered to the workshop. How she did it, I'll never know. I'm not too sure I want to know.

The workshop came to an impasse. They needed a new zonar schematic. They're confidant that we could find what we needed at either Station III, where London's Admiralty conducted their research, or by finding a scientist from Khanate. Khanate's research base is unknown, but quite a few of them relocated to Kahn's Shadow.

If Station III does not pan out, we shall venture to the east.

 

   
December 10, 1887

We set out to the north. The zee is vast and ever-changing, but at least once you chart it it stays put for you.

Some things will always be in the same place. London remains a constant to navigate by.

We head north, to Station III.

 

 

December 10, cont.

The mists of the Sea of Autumn get into the eyes, the heart. It is not unusual to find yourself in unsuspected tears.

Up above, the false-stars in the cavern roof were shifting. A rare and ominous event.

We stood and watched, the zailors tossing around thoughts on the new shape. The Rayed Wheel. One suggests it's the sun, another, 'A Hindu mandala-cross'! A good omen.

 

 

 

December 11, 1887

We have docked at the Mangrove College. A place for the wicked and the wise. An island bursting with fruits and vegetation. Fruit falls, ripe to the bursting. You pick it up and it is fermenting in your hand.

The 'Mangrove College' is barely a village. Holed walls, roofs in disrepair, stilts leaning dangerously. We docked carefully, and immediately I was approached by a redhead.

Kirishima, he called himself. An engineer. He offered his services as an engineer or even just a crewman. We lost someone back at the Grand Geode, so I accepted his offer.

Kacchan snapped at me, then him, for intruding on his space. Kirishima grinned, slung an arm around his shoulder, and asked to see the engines. Kacchan spit a bit more, but led him below deck.

Kirishima should be fine. Probably.

 

 

December 11, cont.

I compiled a port report. The thinkers of Mangrove College continue their untroubled and sedentary existence. Extraordinary poetries are written in water. New schools of philosophy are born and die like bubbles.

I think this place is getting to me. We'll leave tonight.

Uraraka took me beach combing. We found the remnants of a shipwreck. Not much of use, but we did find some extra fuel. Always a fortunate find.

 

 

 

December 12, 1887

A zailor was fretful and disobedient, reluctant to go up on deck. He said there was a white zee-bat, watching him.

Salt's messenger.

White zee-bats are sacred to Salt. Only a foolish zee captain would incur it's wrath. It took crackers from my fingers, as bold as a parrot. It chirruped to me. It sounded like speech. It took to the air.

 

 

 

December 13, 1887

Stalagmites loom in the distance like the cranes of Wolfstack Docks, but vaster. Vaster.

The Corsair's Forest. Our lookouts are watchful.

The fretful zailor is gone. He took off sometime in the night, jumping into the zee. Poor soul. I wish I could have done more for him, but only the foolish bring down the wrath of one of the gods of the zee.

 

 

December 13, cont.

Gaider's Mourn is a stalagmite vast as a crag, and it's foot has no safe harbors. The corsair's citadel nestles halfway up. An intricate system of winches took the strain, and Yuuei slowly rose from the sea. Kacchan was spitting curses, threatening death if there was so much as a scratch on Yuuei's hull.

With Uraraka's help, we float to the upper levels of the rocks. Kacchan stayed with Yuuei, not trusting the pirates. Kirishima stayed with the crew, not trusting them.

Uraraka and I explored the markets. I plucked up my courage and tried something called 'tyrant's treat'. It looked like a charred stick dripping with blueish fluid.

It turned out to be Tyrant-moth antennae. I enjoyed it. Uraraka declined to have any, giggling at me.

There was a steaming bath-house on a spur of rock. Water spilled over the edges, falling down to join the zee far below. Scarred captains were boasting drunkenly. Prizes they've taken. Victims they've claimed. I listened from the shadows. The admiral would be very interested to hear this, I'm sure.

There were rumors in the market. One of the few things pirates fear. The Pirate-Poet.

Some say she's a Clay Man who freed herself with the power of verse. (Possible.) Others insist she's the personal muse of the King with the Hundred Hearts. (Unlikely.) One claims she zails on a living ship made of the still screaming skulls of her victims. (More sober voices muttered that no, it's just an Alcaeus-class vessel.)

Whatever the truths, few have fought her and survived to tell the tale. Only the bravest of captains risk the lonely parts of the zee where her flag is said to fly.

We set off tonight. I have no desire to spend the night among pirates and thieves.

 

 

 

December 14, 1887

A baked breeze rises, the improbable scent of stone out of some distant desert. We are close to the Salt Lions.

Last night men cried out in their sleep. Desperately. I asked what they saw this morning.

"The whole Neath lit up like a Snuffer-mask! There's something in the roof, Captain! It is the roof! It's watching us! Eyes and a face! Eyes and a face!"

What could I do but reassure them? The zailor's forehead was burning up.

"There are storms in the roof." I said to him. "Hush. We won't join them yet."

 

 

December 15, 1887

The Salt Lions. Two basalt beasts, cathedral-sized. They frown eternally at each other across the black waves. The north one carries an encampment: creeping human figures eat away at it's features like rot, pick-pick-picking. There's a supply dock below.

Kirishima had an interest in the Salt Lions, so he and Kacchan went and visited the Unmakers. Kirishima spent some time talking with an Unctuous Overseer. Apparently the teacakes were lovely.

If we had the cargo space to spare, we could haul Sphinxstone to London. But I have little interest in loading Yuuei up with stone and ferrying it across the zee.

The port report for the Salt Lions is fairly bland. Time, basalt, dissolution.

 

 

 

December 16, 1887

Uraraka proved her worth once more, laying siege upon a Western Angler Crab. She insisted on floating over and butchering it, declaring it's meat to be delicious.

She was right. It was quite good. She also brought back a hunting trophy. She seems to be starting a collection.

No landlubber would notice the change. I felt the air prickle on my skin. Somewhere new.

 

 

 

December 17, 1887

We draw close to Void's approach. The air crackles with frosty radiations. To the North, the false-stars fail in the darkness.

We made dock at the Chapel of Lights. Furtive faithful gather in the shadows between many, many candles. A bell tolls in the chapel tower: cracked iron laughter.

Kirishima is troubled. Kacchan less so. Uraraka will not set foot on the island.

A Smiling Priest gave us access to the store-house. "Eat." He said. "But take nothing away with you."

Shark-steaks, plucked from the sea. Thin slices of cavern-tuna, translucent and delicate as paper. Little crimson cakes flavoured with cinnamon and coated with poppy-seeds. Tomatoes, impossibly ripe and sweet so far from the surface.

The Smiling Priest in a red cassock tends the chapel. The congregation are sky of light. They come and go in little ships, and it's strangely difficult to count them. I wonder if some of them are imaginary.

I note the names that I can, for my port report.

 

 

 

December 18, 1887

We have reached the Avid Horizon. Station III was not in our path. It must be more east. We will finish our circle back to London, then strike out and nail it down.

The Avid Horizon. Few come here without a purpose. Those who do come with one, rarely leave. Two vast winged shapes guard a gate of something like resin, smooth but uneven. It is deep gant - the color that remains when all other colors have been eaten. Ice crusts over the crack between it's valves.

It would be utterly foolish to touch the thing.

A merciless wind blows from everywhere to everywhere. It passes without effort through coats, flesh, lungs. The dock lies empty.

There was a wrecked ship along the bleak beach. Kirishima and Uraraka set off to explore it. They returned with fuel, supplies, and sapphires.

Why were they bringing sapphires here, to this desolate place? Some mysteries may never be solved.

 

 

December 18, cont.

We have had a brush with death. Mt. Nomad crossed our path. Kirishima ran for Yuuei's lamp, flicking it off. Kacchan killed the engines.

We drifted past in dead silence. A zailor was muttering prayers.

It looks like obsidian, like the black surface of the zee. Twice as long as Yuuei, coasting along like a great big beast. A great surge of air, it's lungs billowing in and out, once per minute.

It's a legend. And I saw it.

It drifted past, and we started the engines the moment we dared, launching into full speed and cruising away.

It did not follow. What is an ant to a mountain, after all?

 

 

 

December 19, 1887

Boreal Reach. Is this snow? Touch it, and it puffs to vapour. My crew huddles close to the warmth of pipe and funnel.

We dock at Codex. An isle of answers. A desperate caveful of mute exiles, and an inexplicable colony of shivering, bad-tempered monkeys.

No one speaks. Compiling a port report was a challenge. Even when I could understand, there are answers without questions. Useless as a key without a lock.

Uraraka wanted to take on a Lifeberg. Kacchan shouted her down. I'm glad I didn't have to intervene. Going after a Lifeberg with our current hull strength and our solitary gun would be amount to suicide.

 

   
December 20, 1887

We arrived at Wither. A chilly city beside a waste of salt.

Behind the great arch over the Bay, the Pale Wastes stretch, white and silent as the face of the moon. It almost looks like snow. North of the city, the salt-pools fizz with unlikely color.

The citizens of Whither enjoy questions. They easily answer questions with another question. Quite frustrating, when trying to compile a report.

I wandered along the shoreline alone. There were words in the wind. A story, of sorts, of a gate in the North, of a pale light that began there, of a drowned light that will end there, of a high wilderness that other ships may sail.

On a wall of a salt-works, someone had scrawled IS THERE A SEA MORE SUNLESS?

To the north-west of Wither town, the House of the Question stands alone. There, the initiates of the House make offerings to the three gods of the deep zee, and perhaps a fourth who is not a god. It's the one place in Wither you can sometimes get a straight answer, for a price.

Maybe one day I will need to visit there. That day is not today.

Wither is one of the few places you can buy mutersalt, but as strange of a place as it is, you must trade stories to get goods.

We begin our return trek south tomorrow.

 

 

 

December 21, 1887

Dust, echoes, even a sepia tint to the air. These are the waters around the Tomb-Colonies.

The Tomb-Colonist had woke. She was standing somberly by the rail.

"Salt sent me a dream," she insisted. "You must find my father."

I asked for more information.

"Salt tells me that you'll find my father in the belly of a monstrous eel. Gods never lie."

Seems optimistic. If she's right, she'll reward us for her father's return.

Uraraka is down for hunting down a monstrous eel and gutting it. I guess if we find one, we fire on it. Kacchan seems indifferent.

We dock at Venderbight. On deck, we can hear the sound that a thousand bandaged dead make as they shuffle and cough. A dreary place. Kacchan refuses to leave Yuuei.

Kirishima bravely came with me to explore Venderbight. Here, they favor candle-light over gas-light. The shadows are swagged like cobwebs. The tomb-colonists stand still enough to be mistaken for sculpture, until they laugh or cough.

As we walked, a raggedy fellow approached us. He asked to come aboard and work. He seemed hungry and sorrowful. We had slots to fill, so I agreed.

 

 

December 21, cont.

I paid a visit to the First Curator, who is seeking zee captains. It is responsible for the preservation of the tomb-colonies. It has been here for much longer than London, like all the oldest tomb-colonists. But even tomb-colonists dissolve in the end. It's time is close.

It exists in near-darkness. A bandaged shape no larger than a child, lying crumpled on a couch. It took me several seconds to distinguish it's voice from the soft buzz of the bees.

It made a request. Seven colours. It will pay well.

Apocyan. Cosmogone. Gant. Irrigo. Peligin. Violant. Viric.

I will hunt these colours down, across the Enterzee. The Curator is old, and wishes to rest. I will fufill it's last request.

Along the coasts of the Unterzee, it's remarkably hard to die. The decrepit and nearly-dead who leave London become tomb-colonists, and settle here in bandaged peace.

But they don't give up their ties to home, or their politics. I gathered a haul of complex clues, enough to compile an interesting report.

 

 

 

 

December 22, 1887

An Auroral Megaclops, no match for Uraraka's brilliance with her guns. She tried dissecting it, curious about how it's shells were kept together, but it sank apart under her touch.

She pouted and demanded we get a surgeon next, someone with a delicate touch who could pull it apart without destroying it. A doctor aboard would be nice to have. I'll inquire around when we return to London.

The zailor we took on in Venderbight keeps a shrine to the Salt, the nameless god of the horizon, at the back of the hold.

I permitted it. Out here, a captain needs all the help he can get. Even from sad, strange gods of farewell.

 

 

December 22, cont.

Home waters. Zailors dawdle at the rail, watching for the lights of London. We stopped at Hunter's Keep. A quiet isle; a grand old house.

Ships rarely come here; nothing changes, even the weather. The house is the heart of the isle: the house, and the sisters. But the Admiralty may be happy to know that nothing's changed, at least.

A maid with smoldering topaz eyes showed me into the parlor, where three young women waited.

"A visitor!" the youngest had cried. The next youngest had chuckles. The eldest sighed.

"Do excuse the indecorum," She said. "Visitors are rare. You are very welcome. I am Cynthia: the noisy one is Phoebe, the cheerful one is Lucy. You are in good time for lunch. Will you join us?"

This place is not as straightforward as it seems.

I took lunch with Cynthia, the eldest. Melancholy, pensive, occasionally dramatic.

Her eyes were wide, and blue. Her hair was wild and tangled. Bats might nest in it.

"You can't be hungry." She had said, wrapping up my mostly uneaten meal. "It's not safe to be hungry."

Unease in my stomach. I will eat later.  
  
December 22, cont.

I stood on the foredeck. A soft breeze came out of the East, the Salt's direction; tousles my hair, passes.

We make for London.

We passed over Low Barnet, sunk below the zee, a few moments ago. We will be down there, soon enough.

 

 

 

December 23, 1887

We pulled into port. Yuuei was subjected to a random search.

Some things are too illegal for the Customs Service to admit the existence of. The Ministry are here looking for those.

They left scuff marks on the newly scrubbed decks. Kacchan was pissed, but even he knew better than to shout at them.

Collecting messages from the Harbormaster is always interesting. I might not have to go looking for a surgeon. It seems that one has come to me.

Tenya Iida, his name is. He seems the uptight, respectable sort. His scalpel work is impeccable, his surgery speed time blindingly quick. I wonder what made him choose Yuuei, a ship with a fresh captain. When I asked, his glasses shined, and he merely shook his head.

He came with a bag full of equipment, a bag of knives, and her own personal sharpening stone. No one was to touch them but him.

 

 

December 23, cont.

The Roser's Wharf was today. According to the arcane, archaic rules of the market, you may only make one trade per visit.

Uraraka came with me. She picked up some metal contraption that I do not understand the purpose of. She seemed happy, at least.

I had some solacefruit, still ripe, so I sold them to a Starving Poet. He seemed overjoyed. With his funds, he could have eaten meagerly for a week, well for a few days, or eaten solacefruit for one night.

I dropped off my reports at the Admiralty's Survey office. After pulling out a few, I was ushered into the office of the Dark Spectacled Admiral. He surveyed me across the desk.

"The merchant-captain of whom we hear such complicated things." Was what he called me.

I'm not sure how to respond to that.

I turned in the remainder of my reports to him.

Well, almost all. The port report on the Iron Republic burst into flames. I cannot say I was truly surprised. His suit was charred, but he waved it off. Apparently, they have a budget for document-related damages.

I passed along the scraps I got in the Cumaean Canal. He read it carefully, twice, then shredded it to dust.

"It's a little beyond me," He said, "but I have a friend in the Palace who'll be interested."

Perhaps I shall keep them to myself in the future, until I can make heads or tales of the information myself.

 

 

 

December 24, 1887

Iida seems to have settled in well. He and Uraraka are getting along, Kirishima is friendly, and Bakugo is pissed in the way he does when he thinks someone is beneath him, but not so far beneath him that they're worthless.

I visited the University. The University has an inexhaustible appetite for Secrets, zee-speciments, and other tidbits of esoteric lore.

I paid my entry in secrets. I am acquainted with the Alarming Scholar, a mercurial being. A creature of sudden moods and provoking teeth. Possibly her (is it her?) appointment as University maritime Liaison was precautionary: to keep his (is it his?) razor-sharp enthusiasm from causing too many injuries in the faculty.

I offered the Scholar the thoughts from the Great Geode, the extraordinary implication of loss and burning.

"One day- one day I will have enough." The Scholar had said, passing echoes to me. It seems as though I can make quite a hefty amount, passing secrets and tales to the Scholar.

   
December 24, cont.

(It is time to stock up. Kacchan is impatient, and the zubmersible is calling. We head east.)


	2. December 1887 to January 1888

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :V

December 25, 1887

We set a course for east, first, then north in the third sector of the zee. I remember tales of Station III being in that general area, so we shall have to search the zee until it is revealed to us.

Iida seems to have carved a place out for himself. He is fond of foxfire candles, rarely is his cabin dark.

I invited my officers to eat with me for Christmas dinner. It was an interesting meal. Kacchan shouted, Uraraka giggled, Kirishima laughed, and Iida offered his thoughts.

Kirishima and Kacchan eventually delved into their own world, hotly exchanging ideas over... something about the engine. I lost track.

I shared a delightful conversation with Uraraka and Iida over the current state of affairs in London. Iida, I noticed, wielded his fork the way he wields a surgical instrument. With precision and speed.

Perhaps he missed his calling as a chef?

 

 

  
December 26, 1887

We sailed past the Salt Lions today. Kirishima spent some time up on deck and sighing dreamily at them until Kacchan dragged him below deck.

 

 

 

December 27, 1887

Here, the wilder airs mingle with the airs of the near reaches. Demeaux's Gate, named for a navigator lost above. How did his bones come below?

We sailed past Moody's Light. A beacon, cutting though the darkness of the Underzee. A warning. Past this point, the eastern zee awaits.

We hit the Phosogene Bleaks. It smells of sulfur. We hold our breath, turn to the north. Iron & Misery Co. Our passenger needs to be here. I also have information to retrieve, we'll make a stop.

 

 

 

 

December 28th, 1887

I write this in the safety of my cabin, far from Iron & Misery Co. What a dreadful place. It's an island with a funger operation, felling giant bolegus shrooms for building materials, harvesting kirralee for it's 'medicinal' properties. Its a desperate, cloying little outpost of something like civilization.

It's foreman, the Affable Factor, seemed just a touch desperate. It just so happened that the Gnomic Gallivant needed to break into his home.

Inviting the Factor to eat sandwiches on the dock worked well enough. He seemed overjoyed to have company, at the very least. He recommended a restaurant in Venderbight, a place for the most 'extraordinary sea-food'.

A tomb colonist who can cook? Interesting.

The Gnomic Gallivant was overjoyed at what he found. His next stop is Port Cecil. I suppose we shall make our way there eventually.

I received the information from the informant. He looked miserable. I will pass it along when we return to London.

I recorded what I could for a report. Spores everywhere.

 

 

 

  
December 29, 1887

Shepherd's Wash, the salty hinterland of London, home to hermits, nuns, and shadowy business.

Station III, at last. Kacchan is pleased.

Machinery hums behind high steel walls. Up the hill, there are visible outlines of warehouses and a burning with a spire. But the lamps are low, where they burn at all.

Our ship is the only one in the harbor.

Standing on the highest point of Yuuei and looking to shore, I can see. There is a steepled building on the horizon, by far the largest thing in sight. No cross marks the top of it, nor any other symbol I could recognize.

It is silent, but for the hiss and chugging of machinery.

 

  
December 29, cont.

Kacchan took the lead to look for zonar schematics. We ended up in shed 12. He destroyed the lock, and we emerged into a dusty workspace. Abandoned.

How Kacchan knew to look here, I'm not sure. Someone at the hidden workshop probably told him.

We found the documents we needed in an old, rusted filing cabinet. We'll set a course for Port Carnelian.

 

 

 

  
December 30, 1887

I coughed up dust from the warehouse. Kacchan told me to suck it up.

We set a course back to the south, towards Port Carnelian. We passed by Iron & Misery again, the fumes no less potent on the return trip.

 

 

  
December 30, cont.

We sailed past the Labyrinth of Eels. Uraraka was up on deck, scanning for a giant one to fight, but none surfaced, so we continued peacefully through the area.

I wanted to stop by Pigmote Isle, but Kacchan threatened to blow Yuuei up if we did. He wants to get to Port Carnelian as fast as possible.

I know he wouldn't actually blow Yuuei up, but he's still pretty scary when mad.

Sorry, Pigmote Isle. I'll be back when Kacchan has his zubmarine.

 

 

 

 

December 31, 1887

Spined towers rear in the light of the false-stars. Ware reefs.

We ring in the new year tonight. Kirishima suggested breaking out the Mushroom Wine.

We approach the Crying Heights. Time to turn west.

 

 

 

 

January 1, 1888

It is very early morning. Uraraka is singing. The zee is humming along with her. Iida laughs, somewhere. Kacchan and Kirishima are sitting, knees pressed together and their heads ducked towards each other. They've become a good team.

A month at zee already. It feels like I've meant to be here, all my life. Yuuei rocks me to sleep, and I can feel the zee in my bones.

 

 

January 1, cont.

fuck hangovers

 

 

 

 

January 2, 1888

We pulled into Port Carnelian today, and went immediately to the hidden workshop.

They set to work immediately, Kacchan and Kirishima diving into the thick of it. Iida and Uraraka pulled me away from the workshop to wander while they worked.

When we returned, port report fresh in hand, it was finished. Yuuei looked the same from the outside, but Kirishima pointed out the satisfying lever by the helm, surrounded by an array of mysterious gauges and dials. It extends the shell-hull to create an airtight seal for diving.

I shared a sherry with the Fierce Philanthropist.

"To your new journies, Captain, wherever they may lead." She had said to me.

Wherever they may lead, indeed.

 

 

 

  
January 3, 1888

We took on another passenger today. A dapper gentleman. He has a predatory gleam in his eye. He's a man of pins and the jar, a Incomparable Aurelian.

He asked to be taken down to the Undercrow, to find the most regal of the Tyrant Moth's kin. The Most-Moth. He said he knew where to find it, and that we could see it hatch.

I agreed. Echoes are echoes, and perhaps we will get something more out of this.

 

 

January 3, cont.

  
We are below the zee's surface. The hiss of the hydraulics, extending our hull over our heads is like nothing I've ever experienced. Every sound echoes in Yuuei. I write this entry by foxfire candlelight.

The zonar pulses steadily. One every fifteen seconds. It creates a picture for us to navigate by, so that we do not crash into anything.

I can see Kacchan standing on the foredeck. He is still. His head is tilted back, and I can see that his eyes are closed. He is listening to the sound of the water. His palms are dry, knowing that he cannot use his explosions here, wasting our precious oxygen.

Zailors move around him, not saying a word to him, fearful of incurring his wrath. Even without his explosions, Kacchan is a formidable fighter.

I cannot describe the way it feels. To look out the portholes and see dark water. My chest tightens, but I can breath easy.

 

 

January 3, cont.

We encountered a zee-beast I have never seen before. Uraraka ordered the lights off, and we drifted past us. I have never seen her not want to engage.

It drifted past, on wide wings and it made a low, mournful noise.

We will surface when our oxygen starts running low. We should have enough to spend 48 hours down below.

 

 

 

 

January 4, 1888

We encountered a wreck, down below. What caused it to sink? The cargo hold was intact. Uraraka put on the diving suit and swam out to explore. She returned with sealed boxes containing heavily salted biscuits, hard tack, preservatives, and lard.

Cheers.

 

 

  
January 4, cont.

We set a course to the north to look for Port Cecil, to drop off our passenger. We draw near to Pigmote Isle, so we will surface and dock.

 

 

 

  
January 5, 1888

Pigmote Isle is weird.

We docked, and I noticed immediately that there was no habitation in sight. Stunted palms grew along where the sand turned to earth, only they were not palm trees at all. It was tall, fungal growths with frond-like caps. As if someone had sculpted the idea of a tree from a mushroom. Upon disembarking, we could hear clamor, shouts and shooting. Two tiny figures stood unmoving, as if waiting our approach.

A rat and a guinea pig. Their names were long and expansive, and I regret that I could not remember them well enough to record them. They were truly something to behold.

They presented their names, offered food and fuel at their expense, the only cost was a choice.

They told their stories.

The rats had come from London, to make a rat republic and live free. They made a beautiful city by the light of the Rat Star that shone bright and blue on Mount Ararat. They braved the depths of the woods and plucked the Rat Start to be their light, their beacon. The guinea pigs saw the light, and sent their armies to rule the rats and steal the Star.

The guinea pig told their side of the story.

Their leader had been on the sea for seven months, conquered the land and won the southern half. They saw the star and called it 'Our Lady's Eye'. They claim the rats stole it from them, and said they will subjugate them and take it back.

 

They asked me to pick a side. Kacchan called the whole thing stupid and pointless, and returned to the ship. Uraraka was more sympathetic, and stayed.

I attempted to broker peace, but they were having none of it. I had to choose a side. The guinea pigs would have subjugated the rats, I couldn't let that happen. I sided with the rats.

They led myself and Uraraka to the northern side of the island. We came across a small colony of rats, but the first thing I noticed was a brilliant light, beaming out from a stump of wood about six feet high. It bathed the whole settlement in a clean blue glow, it was almost too bright to look at. Uraraka seemed enthralled.

"Welcome to Murinia," said the Chief Engineer.

 

He welcomed us, then bid us look around while he summoned the war council.

Uraraka immediately went to take a closer look at the Rat Star, and I followed after.

We could not look at it directly, it was so bright, but the Chief Science Officer offered us her goggles. I managed to work them over just enough of one of my eyes to see the truth of what she was studying.

 

It was scintillack! Blue as a sapphire, but more brilliant. Something about it's color was tremendously soothing. Uraraka itched to touch it, but I pulled her away.

 

We spent some time talking with the rats before the war council was summoned. The Chief Engineer introduced us to the other rats, weapons experts, strategists, and field commanders.

Uraraka took the lead, offering her assistant in firepower. We had a ship, we had cannons, and she volunteered to fire upon the guinea pigs.

I should have stopped her, but it was the best plan we had.

We launched a volley onto the beach where the guinea pigs were. When the smoke cleared, we saw the torn, bloodied bodies of guinea pigs littering the shore.

Uraraka seemed regretful, but what was done was done.

My hand aches and my heart is heavy. I shall write more later.

 

 

  
January 5, cont.

I was able to forge a peace, after the fighting was done. It is a small boon in the wake of the tragedy that has occurred here.

A new nation has been founded. Hail Murinia.

 


	3. January, 1888

  
January 6, 1888

We set off to the north once more, sinking below the zee. The zonar picked up a settlement to the east, so we will head that way, even though it is out of our path.

 

  
January 6, cont.

We have come across the underzee settlement of Nook. A colossal zee monster, settled into the ground. Large as any island. A gap in it's throat as been forced open with thick heartmelt beams. They strain under the pressure, but hold.

As we drew close, our zubmarine lights passed over a message carved in a floating piece of some unfortunate's hull.

BEYOND IS NOOK. BEYOND IS FREEDOM. BEYOND IS-

The rest was scratched out.

Water presses agains the airlock door. The beating and slithering of the beast gives it the rhythm of a drumbeat.

 

 

January 6, cont.

  
I loaded up in the diving suit and emerged into Nook. It became apparent very quickly that I was over-dressed for the occasion.

The people of Nook swim and breathe in the cloudy Maw-water with no apparent discomfort. Most of them are naked, with just a few clad in rotten rags that stream from their skin with no concern for modesty.

None would communicate with me. Those who acknowledged my presence just laughed silently. I will need a different approach.

 

 

 

January 7, 1888

After a rest and some deliberation, we will try again, decending mostly-nude into Nook. Kacchan and Kirishima will come along. I am glad Kirishima is accompanying Kacchan. I fear losing him to such a place.

Perhaps I am overthinking it. Kacchan would hardly give up his explosions for a life under the zee.

 

  
January 7, cont.

The sensation of breathing water is discomforting, but one rapidly grows used to it. Even now, writing this while back aboard Yuuei, my lungs feel empty and my skin itches. Perhaps next time we visit, the liberal application of wine will assist with the transition.

I have recorded what I can of the information I learned in Nook for a port report. I'm sure the admiral will find it very interesting.

I attempted to mingle with the Nookfolk. They acknowledged my presence, but only a little bit. Most of them pulled away, others tried to intimidate me. The natives have developed a basic language of sign, speech all but impossible with the slightly glutinous water.

When they started drawing their fingers across their throats, I knew it was time to go. I collected Kacchan and Kirishima, and we returned to Yuuei.

But not without purchasing some Stygian Ivory. I just need devilbone dice, then there's a man I can see about a gun for Yuuei.

 

 

 

  
January 8, 1888

I asked Kacchan if he wanted to eat with me. He told me he'd rather feed himself to a zee-beast.

Point taken. I guess I'll have to find some other way to show how much I appreciate having him around.

We continue north, trying to locate Port Cecil.

 

 

 

January 9, 1888

A zailor ran mad. She roamed the ship, cudgel in hand, smashing comrades to the deck.

"He is angry!" She had cried. "Oh, he is angry!"

Kirishima brought her down into a shrieking heap.

"I am that old fury!" She howled. I swore, for a moment in the glim-light, her eyes seem to swirl the grey of storm-clouds...

Kacchan locked her in a cage in the hold, spitting mad. She struck down one of his favorite zailors, lost forever now. I won't let him kill her though. More senseless waste of life accomplishes nothing.

We shall see if the madness passes. If not, I do not know what to do.

 

 

 

  
January 10, 1888

Past the phosogene bleaks once more. Urgh.

On the horizon, a sickly yellow light glimmered for a moment, then faded.

I dined with Uraraka tonight. She is delightful. She told me of her family, poor construction workers in the Iron Republic. Humans, living in Hell's clint-state. No wonder she is lively in everything she does, though I am surprised she is as sane as she is.

 

 

 

January 11, 1888

Abby Rock. Stories are told of this place. A black spit of an island, far from anywhere anyone would want to go. And that's how the Sisterhood likes it.

Here stands their fortress-convent. There are bear-traps that look friendlier than this.

We will make a short stop anyway. Compiling a port report shall be easy.

 

 

January 11, cont.

As I sat and watched, a side door on the convent opened. Four nuns marched out, carrying something wrapped in a blanket, and flung it into the zee.

It was likely unidentifiable, even before the nuns used it for weapons practice. Now it leaks fluid from a dozen puncture wounds.

I would hate to cross those nuns.

 

 

 

January 12, 1888

I take it all back. Uraraka is just as insane as her home port.

Yesterday, She took one of her hunting trophies, marched up to the gates and presented it to the Muscular Prioress. The Prioress inspected it, accepted it, and offered Uraraka (and no more than three others) an invitation to dine with them.

So naturally, Uraraka accepted and asked myself, Iida, and Kirishima to join her. We dined on black laver-bread and overcooked cavern-trout. Our company was fierce women with spiked rosaries. One of them hacked up her trout with an axe.

Uraraka got along with them like a house on fire. I think she would have fit in extremely well here, but she promised that her loyalty was to me and to the zee.

At the end of the night, a tall nun with a startling stabismus sung in a rich deep voice like a stolen sunset, about the hills of her homeland, far above.

A song to curl up in the heart.

 

 

 

January 13, 1888

We made port at the Shepherd Isles. Sheep, lichen, standing stones.

"Of course," The Bearded Watchman had told me. "There are no acutal shepherds on the Shepherd Isles. Sheep are most illegal here. It's just the name of the gentleman that found the islands."

I mean. I guess?

While we were docked, I was approached by the most exhausted looking man I've ever met. Hitoshi Shinso, his name is. He had a strange sigil on his face, and he near-begged me for employement.

His Quirk is brainwashing. He told me right off the bat, that he didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable, but he needed to work. That the headaches only stopped when he was working.

He was a navigator. A navigator would be useful, able to pin down the islands and make the zee stay in one shape. I hired him. He seemed grateful, and tucked himself away in the smallest cabin. He took the sketchy maps we had, promised new ones, and set to work charting them out properly on good paper.

The port report for the Shepherd Isles is... colorful. Perhaps next time I shall record some of it in my journal. It certainly is interesting enough.

 

 

The zailor came back to herself today. She curled up in her cage and sobbed, begging for release. We shall put her ashore where ever she wishes.

 

 

  
January 14, 1888

Shinso has emerged with the first set of maps of the Underzee, a long strip of the westmost border. He showed it to me, he has quite the talent for mapmaking. I think bringing him on will turn out to be a good choice.

Only Kirishima seems to be making an effort to welcome him. Uraraka and Iida are in the middle of dissecting a jillyfleur, and Kacchan rarely extends a hand of friendship to anyone.

Palmerston's Reach. There is brimstone on the wind.

 

 

 

January 15, 1888

Mount Palmerston. Brimstone. Always brimstone.

Sullen lights glow green at the jetty's edge. Behind the port buildings, the island is knee-deep in ash. There are ruins dotted over the landscape, of houses destroyed by fire. Far above, the mountain's top flickers red, just for an instant.

Iida has made it clear he wants nothing to do with the place. I understand. There was a revolution in Hell, and the aristocracy of devils fled here to plot in exile. The Brimstone Convention is enough to make any man uneasy.

I will chat with the port-folk and attempt to compile enough information for a port report.

 

 

  
January 15, cont.

The most I got from the port-folk was 'They stay up there and we stay down here. If Hell's fighting itself, that's good for us all, isn't it?' 

Not very helpful, but I suppose they're right.

Upon exploring Mouth Palmerson with Uraraka, we came across a colony of Blemmigans. Pulsing, purple and squishy, they are a rich dark purple, like viscera perhaps, or blackberries. They chittered as they swarmed, the sound was like pebbles on a beach. A single blemmigan is a nuisance, a hundred are a calamity. Uraraka was delighted, and we settled in to observe the colony, and learn what we could.

  
They resemble the fruiting bodies of fungus. The mound itself looks fungal. Are they the same organism? They cooperate and communicate.

They dragged a marsh-rat up the side of the mound, bickering over the disposition of it's flesh. A half-dozen stood upon the mound, listening almost respectfully to the chittering of a sevent. It was improbably reminiscent of a poetry recital.

  
There was a middle-aged woman in a veiled hat staring at me as we made our way back to the ship. I stopped to talk to her, of course. The Imperious Sister. She began commandingly, as though we had met at a Salon in London, as through there were no burning mountain at her back and as though I was just slightly socially her inferior.

She had been searching everywhere for her brother, who had been 'troubled by some past difficulties'. She came to Mount Palmerston because she thought they had his Soul.

She said he used to work for the Admiralty, and that something happened to distress him there. She comissioned me to go to Aigul, the City of Regrets; to find her brother's reget; and return it to her.

Well, she will pay gladly, and Kacchan will be delighted to have another reason to submerge, so to Aigul I suppose we will go.

Of course, we'll have to find it first.

I picked up the devilbone dice. I have a man to see about a gun.

 

 

 

 

January 16, 1888

We continued east from Mount Palmerston, and encountered Frostfound.

Frostfound, vast and chilly. A fortress seiged by questions, answers, and riddles. Towers and ramps and galleries and stairs of ice, raised and spun like an architect's honey-dream. No spider ever wove so complex a web. The towers are utterly pristine, untouched by human life, but a pitiable encampment squats by the dock.

There was a zailor here, who was quietly relieved to see a ship. He had the head of a bird, and offered his services to see through the fog of the Underzee. Fumikage Tokoyami, was his name. He seemed tired, but determined. Perhaps with his gift of sight, he has seen too much. I took him on.

He promised that he would not make much trouble. All he needed was a corner to keep his things, and a quiet place to watch from.

 

 

  
January 16, cont.

I took tea with the squatters at the dock. Some of them wore the robs of Iremi Riddlefishers, some look like Whithern folk, but even more ragged. But they did seem a little more practical than either of those people. It was a surprisingly warm welcome.

"We're keeping the steps for the Game of Truths," a Helpful Riddlefisher explained to me. "Every yeah, the people of Irem and Withier meet here for- Contests. The difference between a question and a riddle. One day, someone will prove themself enough to enter the castle."

After spending a few pleasant hours, they offered me fuel and supplies.

"We keep more than enough to spare." the Riddlefisher grinned. "From time to time a captain gets lost and comes up here, and we always feel bad for them."

Honestly, I would feel bad for them too.

I wrote a report down about the Squatters, but it all seems like a friendly rivalry without looking too close at Frostfound.

 

 

  
January 17, 1888

We turned south and sailed past Kahn's Glory and Kahn's heart today. We very carefully stayed clear of the whole place.

Tokoyami directed us past Kahn's ships with a careful word, and we made it past without any trouble.

He said that if we reach the North-South dividing area and haven't found Port Cecil, we should continue east and turn north again.

 

 

  
January 18, 1888

We watch for fungal-pads in the Sea of Lillies. There is a prison here, guarded by knot-oracles...

 

 

  
January 19, 1888

Directly east of Pigmote Isle, is Nuncio. We stopped briefly today to take a report.

Taciturn functionaries walk the docks, in the uniforms of postmen. An enourmous crowned statue casts a chilling shadow. The shadows gleam with rats' eyes. Their ceaseless chittering rolls like the tide.

I may not be very familiar with the locals, yet, but I could provide a preliminary overview. Everyone calls each other by their ranks in the postal service. The port authorities refer to Regulations. A curious habit of referring to any used-up thing as 'cancelled', as though the whole world were made of stamps. I wrote about vestigial bureacracy and about trappings of order retained far from home.

Taking Tokoyami's advice into mind, we continue east before swinging north again.

 

 

 

  
January 20, 1888

The Promised Sea. All through this place, the song of the Drownies lies shivering-sweet along the wind.

  
Uraraka spotted an Albino Moray and she immediately ordered the ship around, and we fired upon it. We drifted closer once it stopped moving. It was even uglier dead than alive.

Something twitched inside the eel's gut, so Iida and Uraraka started there with the butchering. A tomb-colonist clambered out. His bandages had seeped for weeks in the internal juices of an eel, so they looked more like a kind of mop of linguine. We shall take him back to Venderbight, when we head back that way.

 

 

January 20, cont.

The Fathomking's Hold. Lorkins Port: named for that most enterprising of Drownies. Phosphor-cells burn green. Somewhere below, the King waits.

We stayed long enough for two things. Shinso and I sat together as I wrote a report, and he made soft observations in a tired voice.

The Porter watched me write. She said nothing.

The other was to trade for a White Mollyflower. It looks like a fish in water, and a flower in air. The Drownies reccomend owning one if we visit their cousins at Dahut.

Well, we will visit everywhere, eventually, so a White Mollyflower I shall bring.

The instructions were, 'Place it in water if it needs reviving. Crush it and bite it when the need arises. It is proof against seeing things that aren't there.'

 

 

 

January 21, 1888

'We hear those voices that will not be drowned.' Tokoyami said to me, today. Uraraka likes him, and I do as well, but he is distinctly unnerving at times. I don't think it's his fault, though.

This is the Sea of Voices, after all, we are close to Polythreme, where nothing is truly dead.

I visited Iida in his cabin today. His candles were burning, as usual, and he was working on dissecting parts of the eel from yesterday.

We talked for a little while, of his family. He apparently gets his proficiency with metal from both sides of the family. His mother was favored by Mr. Iron. His father was a Hero in Port Carnelian, and now his brother, Tenya, carries the Hero torch.

 

 

 

January 22, 1888

We stopped at Polythreme. Kacchan and I wandered long enough for me to write a port report. Tokoyami watched with dark eyes from aboard the ship, but he made no move to come on shore.

The King with a Hundred Hearts rules from his palace above the city. He is never seen. He makes no treaties with other lands. But there's unrest in the air.

The Clay Men we spoke to were obedient and humble, but they spoke nervously of those who are not: the maimed, the rebellious, the Unfinished...

 

 

  
January 23, 1888

Godfall. Sometimes- just occasionally- bits of the roof fall off. Godfall is one such bit.

The brawling bearded men who live here call themselves monks. They pay lip service to 'St Stalactite which fell from the roof'. But their chief interests seem to be wine, blood, and shouting.

Uraraka offered them a hunting-trophy as a gift for their collection. The trophy inspired the monks to fests of bragging. This one broke a giant Albino Moray's neck. That one wrestled a Heptycheer. So on and so forth. Uraraka was there in the middle, boasting and toasting the wine alongside the biggest and toughest of the monks.

She looks so small compared to them, but I have seen her break men's jaws for laying their hands on her. I pity anyone who underestimates her.

  
Before the stalactite was a monastery- before it ever fell from the roof- it was a citadel. The fall shattered it and killed all it's occupants. Probably.

We will need foxfire candles if we ever want to explore in there. Kacchan refuses to back down from a challenge, so I suppose we will come back with foxfire candles.

 

 

 

January 24, 1888

We finally touched down in Port Cecil. A sourceless silver glow. A haven for players of games.

Rumpled convolutions of coral fill the water, glimmering with silvery light. The harder I look, the more I see shapes amid the chaos, almost as if they were sculpted. This one could be a crenellated castle: that one, a horse's head.

A neat little port huddles into the side of a coral island- prosaic Imperial docks and houses tucked away in a baroque organic chaos. In that curious silvery light, among the frozen chaos of coral, the scene has the unreal air of a pencil sketch, crumped and discarded.

I will assist the Gnomic Gallivant now that we are here. I'm not entirely sure what he wants to do, but I am too far to back out now.

 

 

January 24, cont.

There was a door, behind which was a long hall of chess tables. A man from the Presbyterate sat alone, playing against himself.

The Gallivant pulled the string out of a package. He tossed it inside and slammed the door shut. An explosion knocked it off it's hinges. I peeked inside. The man was as dead as any of the pieces. A thousand years is more than enough for any man.

The Gnomic Gallivant asked to be taken to Kingeater's Castle. I agreed. We had come this far, might as well finish the journey and see it through to the end.

  
I sat with Kirishima as I wrote a port report. The older inhabitants of Port Cecil carry coral encrustations like a disease: splotched with silvery light. They like to go up into the limestone heights behind the harbor, to lay their heads against the pillars and towers, stare at the roof of the Neath, dream, open-eyed. Sometimes, they speak of things far away: the Khanate's work, the smuggler wars, the Fathomking's secrets.

Perhaps it's not all invented...

 

 

 

  
January 25, 1888

We shall remain for another day or two at Port Cecil.

I took Kacchan to explore the reefs, and we stumbled across a Privateer Encampment. Once it was an empty cliff-top above the bleak waves. Now it blazed with colors! Striped tents, colored flames, the music of pianola and kettle-drum! Moustachioed women and languorous men play chess, carve bones, eat cats, and polish their terrifying brass weapons.

These are Iron Republic privateers: pirates who practices contravene the very laws of nature.

Kacchan shoved me against the coral wall, covering my mouth to silence me as we spotted them. He was... very warm, and his body was soft upon mine. Hours later, I still feel my cheeks flush when I think about it.

We listened in to the fragments of meaning, privy only to the client-state of Hell.

A raid on the Kahn's Glory, from which they stole 'pieces of prayer'- of a boast that a rival band made about stealing the Empress' wedding-dress- of a sort of spiced meat which fills the heart with love. A scarred prince, the banished siblings.

But they speak, too, almost coherently, of privateer lairs in the Western Wall, of passwords in use, of Brass Embassy protocols and of tuning-techniques for drawing lost souls close...

A buzzing rose in my brain as we listened, and from the expression on Kacchan's face, he felt it too. We crept away before anything worse could happen, but we collected an odd and useful miscellany of facts.

 

 

  
January 25, cont.

Shinso took me to the chess-players. Chess is popular in the Principles. The port is full of exiles, drunks, and washed up zee-traders. They all play, often obsessively. He warned me to be careful. The chess-pieces are carved from scintillack. Here in the Principles, that can be very dangerous.

I sat and watched Shinso play a few rounds. His normally tired and unfocused expression sharpened as he played, his fingers rubbing over the chess-pieces. He won two, then lost one. After the loss, he seemed to come back to himself, and pulled away from the chess-board.

He offered them to me, and I hesitently accepted them.

I don't often look at chess-pieces: not really look. The Bishops, with their hooks. The Night, with it's mane and teeth. The Kin and the Cream, white mingled with red. The Roots that pin the corner of the board down, to keep me safe from my opponenet. I lifted a paw to toy with it: touch it's velvety pads.

My opponent checkmated me. Her face was blank and white as the dome of a chess-pawn. She asked if I looked too closely. Shinso laughed, a thin, beautiful sound. I need to be more careful with scintillack chess-sets.

She walked away, and I found another match. One more time.

Odd thoughts bubbled up each time I touched each chess piece. This one longs for home. That one has a secret desire for revenge against the slayer of it's rank-mate. This will be a queen one day. Those would do better as metal, I tasted the metal.

I pushed past the thought, this time, and moved methodically to a victory over my opponent.

Shinso clapped me on the shoulder, and pulled me out of my chess-trance.

Opening moves. We return to the ship.

 

 

 

  
January 26, 1888

We continue onwards, to the North. Port Cecil glimmers behind us, and I can still feel the edges of chess pieces under my fingers.

We will complete our journey North, then down the far Eastern edge of the zee. Kingeater castle is in the far Southeastern corner of the zee, no matter what chart it appears on.

After Kingeater Castle, we will fill in the rest of our map in the Eastern half of the zee for Shinso. He will be delighted to have the rest of our navigation chart to make.

We enter Stormbones. St Eligius sends his fire to dance in the air, on deck. Very far away we see the great light of the Ragged Crow.

 

 

  
January 27, 1888

Strange puffs of warmth from the air behind the ice. This is the Pillared Sea, where Irem will lie. Lies. Has always lain.

Someone left a white pawn on my desk last night. I think it was Shinso. As I write now, it shines in the candlelight out of the corner of my eye.

Not scintillack, it's made from ivory, but running my fingers over it helps, just a touch.

 

 

 

January 27, cont.

Irem, the Pillared City. No one has ever spoken truthfully about this city.

  
She will rise from the zee and the ice like dawn. She will be garland with red and decked with gold. The Seven0Serpent will watch you longingly from its high pedestal. You will always arrive as a stranger, but some part of you will always remain.

I sat down to record a port report. I recalled that it was written already. Who wrote it? The report records that: it was already written when it was found. Who found it? The report describes another report, which will indicate the name of the finder. Where is the other report? There is a location which describes when I will record it's location. When will that be?

When all is well, and all manner of thing is well.

  
Irem makes my head hurt, at times. Tales and tales and tales. I talked with a few people, and exchanged a few tales for others, and some echoes passed through my hands. A few secrets were made known to my ears, and an couple of extrodinary implications have been recorded in my journal for the future.

If there is one place to learn intriguing snippets of information, it is Irem.


End file.
